In Case of Surrender
by Artemis1000
Summary: No one's surrendering today, so why does it feel like they're both admitting defeat? The day before the signing of the Élysée Treaty, France and Germany take a walk down memory lane at Compiègne.


So I realized that I posted this fic to AO3 in 2012, but never here. It was one of my most nerve-wrecking fics to post since I fretted about doing justice to the very difficult chapters in history it discusses - guess I fretted for so long I forgot to post!

Content Advice: Rating for non-explicit mentions of violence during war. Touchy historical topics.

History A/N: Compiegne is where Germany surrendered to France at the end of the WW1, like it is said in the story it was just a clearing in the middle of the forest where they met in a train wagon so they could meet far away from the paparazzi. The French built that memorial of a fallen, speared eagle, called the Alsace-Lorraine Memorial - the eagle being Germany's symbol.  
Then during WW2, Hitler had the French surrender to Germany in the exact same train wagon at Compiegne. Later, they destroyed the memorial site. The armistice wagon was taken to Berlin, and later destroyed.  
After WW2, the French had the memorial site rebuilt by German prisoners of war.  
If you want to learn more, "Glade of the Armistice" is a good starting point on Wikipedia - it has pics of the places featured in this story.  
The Elysee Treaty was signed in 1963, and is widely credited as the foundation of friendly relations between France and Germany, after centuries of enmity.

 **In Case of Surrender**

As he followed the long path lined by trees towards the war monument, Germany mused that it should have been drizzling or at least storming.

Instead, the sky was blue, the winter sun shone with a pale golden light and if you looked closely, you could see birds hop around in the trees. He wondered idly if you might even see squirrels or rabbits so close to the war memorial. The people might scare them away, but the memorial was located in the Forest of Compiègne, after all. Cute little wildlife animals frolicking around whilst his stomach tangled itself into knots of dread would have fit the entire bizarre situation quite nicely.

You should know better than to let France pick the location of your date, Austria had mocked when he gave him a distressed call, pleading for advice. Germany suspected he should have called Feliciano. His advice would have involved pasta, but at least he would have been suitably sympathetic.

He stopped as he reached the perfect circle of the clearing, an outer pathway encircling a meadow with a low stone dais in the middle. Once again, he was taken aback by the changes. Germany would never forget how the Glade of the Armistice had looked the first time he had seen it in 1918. It had been just another clearing deep in the Forest of Compiègne, far away from nosy journalists and locals. The second time around… He truly would have preferred not to recall the second time. Damn France for insisting on this walk down memory lane.

He found his fellow nation easily; he was the only other person around. France sat casually on the steps of the dais, one knee drawn towards his chest and his arms folded on top of it, the other leg stretched out in front of him. His long blond hair was tousled from the wind; his cheeks and nose were reddened. For all that his posture was whimsical; Germany thought he looked very small and forlorn on the large clearing.

Germany nodded at him with a tense smile as he walked down one of the smaller paths dividing the meadow to join him at the centre of the clearing. France looked as if he had been here for a while. Germany felt his cheeks flush from embarrassment and his posture become yet more rigid. "I apologize," he said stiffly, "I didn't realize I'm late."

France forced a half-hearted chuckle from his throat while he shook his head. "You're not. I got here early. I wanted…," he trailed off, momentarily lost for words as he gazed into the distance towards the Alsace-Lorraine Memorial, "I needed some time to myself first."

It wasn't easy for France, either. The realization hit Germany all the more forcefully for that it came as such a surprise. His stomach unclenched fractionally. It seemed so obvious then that he would have laughed if he had been a more emotional man; instead, he marveled quietly. He had been so stuck on the unfairness of France forcing him to go through this that he hadn't spared a thought to France's feelings. He had to stifle bitter laughter then. Hadn't that been the root of so many of their arguments?

France stood up, the cape fluttered around his shoulders in the wind.

Germany's stomach tied itself anew into yet more intricate knots as all sympathy for France vanished.

He was so used to seeing him dressed in blue, he hadn't paid attention to the eerie familiarity of his attire.

He wore the same clothes he had preferred during the Second World War, the same clothes he had worn for their second meeting in this clearing.

Germany averted his eyes, his hands balled into fists at his sides. It felt like the June of 1940 all over again, he could nearly feel warm summer winds ruffle his uniform coat and the shirt's stiff collar scratch against the skin of his throat. He gulped hard. "This isn't a game, France! We have a responsibility to…"

"You think this is a game to me?" France hissed. "I wasn't playing at Verdun!"

"Meeting at Verdun would have been preferable," Germany snapped. He wrapped his coat tighter around him and turned his back to France. "I thought you had outgrown your inclination for pettiness."

"I'm not…" There was the faintest hurt waver to France's voice, so faint that Germany quickly dismissed it as a product of his imagination. "Never mind."

France walked at a brisk pace, Germany followed reluctantly.

He wondered irritably why he was humoring France at all. However, his boss' orders left no room for interpretation. No matter what France said or did, he wasn't to jeopardize their good relations the day before the signing of the Élysée Treaty. Too bad no one seemed to have given France the same orders.

He led them to the Alsace-Lorraine Memorial, the sight of which only served to sour Germany's mood further. He glared at the fallen eagle speared by a sword.

"What do you think?"

Germany pressed his lips together and struggled to suppress a frown.

The second time they met at Compiègne, France had inquired sardonically if he liked what he had done with the place. He had answered truthfully that he didn't. It had been easy then; they had been enemies and France had been welcome to draw whatever unflattering conclusions he wanted.

"You have rebuilt," he stated in a neutral tone of voice. The memorial had been dynamited after France's surrender.

France smiled brightly, but there was a sharp edge to his smile. "Your people did a good job."

Germany ground out a scathing, "Thank you," between clenched teeth. France was very petty indeed.

Not for the first time, he wondered if they were making a mistake. Could their alliance truly be the foundation of peace and stability in Europe when they were incapable of conducting a civil conversation? Their bosses thought so, but their bosses didn't have the personal history they did. With a sigh, he dismissed the doubts as inconsequential. If England and France had been able to cooperate to fight him, he would certainly be able to cooperate with France to keep the peace. Ultimately, it wasn't a matter of wanting, but of needing France. Ensuring good relations with him would be just another unpleasant duty to carry out.

France, who had climbed the tiny hill on which the monument stood, turned his head to gaze at him with furrowed eyebrows. He gazed at him for a long moment, then gave a little shrug and went back to inspecting the fallen eagle.

Germany buried his hands in his pockets and watched the trees whilst he waited for France to be done. He tried to be patient. They would both require a lot of patience to make it work between them. Being patient with France, he was already realizing, would be infinitely harder than being patient with North Italy.

"Prussia was spitting mad." France's voice was soft, but it still seemed jarringly loud as it broke the tense silence. "He thought I was mocking him."

Germany found himself snorting in amusement before he knew it. "He thinks everything is about him."

France's corresponding laughter was light and just a tad perverted. Germany couldn't believe he was relieved to hear it. "Of course he does! It comes with being awesome!" He half expected France to throw in something lecherous about showing him his own five meters, but he went right back to being pensive.

"You miss him." He didn't know why he felt the need to voice it aloud, maybe because he missed Prussia so keenly in that moment and didn't want to be alone in his grief.

To his surprise, France gave a curt nod. "I do." He leant against the base of the monument and crossed his arms in front of his chest. The look he shot Germany was expectant, or rather, demanding. When he didn't react right away, he tapped his foot impatiently.

Germany climbed the small hill with great reluctance. Even if they were built to celebrate his defeat, he still felt it was disrespectful to climb all over war memorials as if they were toys on a playground.

"Do you have news on Prussia?" France inquired in a tone that was far too light and disinterested to be taken at face value. "He is a loud-mouthed brute who can't keep himself out of trouble. Russia… Russian winters are harsh." He hugged himself and sighed explosively.

He stared at the fallen eagle and tried to picture Prussia's reaction to it. It must have been quite a sight. "You'll be the first to know if I hear anything."

"I better! We're supposed to consult another on all important matters."

Germany choked down a scathing remark that knew that very well, for he had studied the treaty while France was busy hopping from bed to bed. "I don't know when I will see him again, but if I do, would you like me to deliver a message to East?"

France mulled on it for a while. Finally, he laughed his typical honhonhon laugh and flashed Germany a wicked grin. "Tell him he doesn't need to worry about you anymore. I'll keep you from doing anything foolish!"

Still dazed from France's emotional whiplash, Germany blinked disbelievingly at him. "Excuse me! When did I last do anything foolish?"

The look France shot him was sardonic enough that England would have paled with envy.

Germany cringed. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It always does." France's voice was just as scathing; he was really doing England proud. "Didn't go too well for you, your good idea, did it?" He snorted. "You would think you would have learnt it the first time around!"

Germany's forehead crinkled into a dark frown, his posture stiffened with indignation. "If you hadn't been so petty after the Great War…"

"So now it's my fault?" France interrupted, voice sharp and biting. "I can't believe you're blaming me for your sins!"

Germany laughed bitterly. "You had no problem blaming me for everyone else's!"

"I blamed you because you were responsible for the Great War!"

"Austria started it!"

"He wouldn't have done anything if you hadn't encouraged him!"

"I didn't encourage him to do anything; I was just a good ally!"

"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy slaughtering my men at Verdun and at the Somme!"

"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy slaughtering mine!"

France opened his mouth to shout back, but he faltered and closed it with a snap. He turned away.

Germany stared at his ramrod-stiff back and wondered how exactly they had ended up fighting about one of the topics their bosses had beseeched them to avoid. They had been doing such a good job faking friendship in front of them, too. He didn't know about France's boss, but his was going to kill him.

"You know… I think I did," France whispered. He faced Germany again with a tired crooked smile. For once, he looked every bit the old nation he was. "You hurt me so much, I wanted to hurt you back."

He recalled it vividly, the helplessness, the fury. At some point of the Great War, he hadn't even cared anymore why they were fighting. He sighed heavily. "I wanted to hurt you back, too."

France rummaged around in his pockets, coming up with a cigarette and lighter. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he lit the cigarette. He didn't even take a pull, he just rolled it around between his fingers once he'd put the lighter away. "Do you remember the smell of decay in the summer?"

Germany nodded. Of course he did. They couldn't always remove the corpses, so they would remain where they had fallen until the sweet smell of decay hung over the battlefield. "I think my old uniform still reeks of it."

"Mine, too." He remembered his cigarette then. Germany noted that his hand still shook. "Did you know they keep finding skeletons at Verdun?"

Germany hadn't, but it made sense. There had been so many corpses; he doubted they could ever recover all of them. The whole landscape had been ploughed up by the grenades and the corpses buried beneath. "Do you still bear scars from our wars?" He asked his question in a clinically curious tone of voice, the only one in which he could have ever brought up the courage to ask.

Against his expectations, France didn't blow up at him. He just froze for a moment and then he laughed, flashed him a saucy wink. "Honhonhon, if you want to see me naked, you just have to ask, Allemagne!"

Germany's face shifted to a frown, but smoothed out again before he had achieved the expression. Not so long ago, France would have told him to mind his own business, at the very least. Maybe France was working on his temper? Germany's lips twitched. If France ever restrained it sufficiently not to be provoked into a spat by England's mere existence, the nations of the world would die from shock. Remembering the game of the moment, he grumbled dutifully mortified, "France, do you have no shame!" and made a mental note to avoid the subject of scars.

France pouted prettily. "You're no fun."

"So I've been told," Germany replied wryly. With France's eyes sparkling with lecherous mischief and his laughter filling the silence, Germany felt like he could breathe freely for the first time since he had arrived at the Glade of the Armistice.

France pushed himself away from the foot of the monument. "Let's take a walk. I'm freezing." He chuckled lecherously and nudged Germany with his elbow. "Or you could warm me up…?"

Germany ducked his bright red face, yet he didn't feel completely uncomfortable. At the very least, he preferred this France to the earnest, bitter one. France shouldn't be all brittle edges, so riddled with cracks you wondered if he would break apart with just one more hit.

They walked side by side back onto the clearing.

France breathed on his cold hands and buried them in his pockets. The wind had picked up and grown colder, bringing clouds with it. "Do you want to see the wagon?"

Germany's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "I didn't realize it was returned to you."

"It wasn't. It's a replica." He gave a little shrug and pulled his hand out of his pocket. He dangled a bundle of keys in front of Germany's face. "It's nice and warm inside the museum," he wheedled. "There might even be a break room!" His face lit up and he made a beeline for the museum building. "Come on, I'll make you a cup of coffee!"

Germany's forehead creased in distress. "We can't break in!"

France huffed. "We're in France, aren't we? It's not breaking in if you break into your own house!" He jangled the keys again. "Nor is it breaking in if you have the keys."

"That sounds like North Italy's logic," Germany interjected doubtfully.

"See!" France said triumphantly.

They crossed the short distance in silence. The keys fit, which surprised Germany somewhat. He thought France fully capable of lying to him just to pull him into some crazy, pointless stunt.

France seemed to be aware of his doubts, for his smirk was very smug as he threw open the door for Germany with a grandiose exclamation of, "Voilà!"

Germany flushed slightly, but he refused to grant him the acknowledgement he expected. He continued to disapprove, just not violently enough to stay in the cold. "How did you convince your boss to get you the keys?"

"…and to get the place closed for the public today," France corrected.

They walked inside and France immediately went off in search of the museum staff's break room. Germany lingered by the door.

He heard France putter around in the distance, but he stayed right where he was, feeling like an intruder. This place had been built to commemorate his defeat; he just couldn't shake off that thought and see it as yet another museum. Besides, the last time he had been here… No, he truly preferred not to reminisce.

"I told him the truth."

Germany looked up from staring at the tips of his shoes to find France standing just a few feet away, two steaming cups in his hands. It took him a while to remember just what France had replied to.

In the meantime, France had wandered away with the cups. Germany followed to find him lounging against the replica of the infamous railcar that held so many bitter memories for both of them. For a moment, he paused to marvel how unaffected France was. Then he realized that he hadn't gone inside to drink his coffee sitting down.

France stretched out a hand holding a cup. "It's American instant coffee, but it's hot."

Ludwig stared at the cup, but he just coughed awkwardly and didn't reach out to take it. The entire situation was just too bizarre for him to grasp.

Francis gave an aggravated snort. "You stole my railway carriage. The least you can do is to take a cup of coffee from me!"

Germany raised his eyes to stare at France instead, struck by just how many things were wrong with that logic. Slowly, he reached out and accepted the cup for the simple reason that compliance would be easier than arguing.

"Do you understand why I brought you here?" His eyes flickered to Germany's before they returned to his cup.

Staring into his coffee seemed like a very good idea all of a sudden, so Germany did it as well. He took a sip. He had several assumptions why Francis had invited him to this of all places, each of them less flattering than the last one. "I don't know," he said instead.

France laughed, it wasn't a pleasant sound. "I thought we agreed not to lie to another anymore, Allemagne."

Germany frowned and his grip tightened around the cup handle. "The treaty obliges us to cooperate and attempt to find a common policy, not to…" He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. Not to be honest, he meant to say, but how did diplomats phrase such an ugly truth prettily? This, he thought morosely, was exactly why he was a better soldier than diplomat.

France laughed again. There was a hint of real humor in his voice this time, wry though it was. "Of course not. The reconciliation process wouldn't survive a single year of honesty. You and I, however…" He looked up and waited until Germany, unsettled by the silence, to look up as well to catch his eyes. They were hard and jaded, just like the grim smile he wore. It was a look that clashed horribly with France's ruffled locks and cold-reddened cheeks. "You don't need to play nice with me. You showed me your true face already when we were in there the last time," he said with another of these wry laughs and jerked his head towards the wagon.

Germany spluttered even as his cheeks turned red. "Don't phrase it like that! You make it sound as if… as if something …," he faltered, gulped, before he choked out the word, "perverted had happened!"

"My mistake. Nothing happened!" France agreed viciously, "nothing except you forcing me to smile and make pleasant conversation while my people were being sold out!"

Germany opened his mouth. At the very last moment, he realized telling France that it had been his choice to surrender would be a colossally bad idea and shut it again. So was inquiring whether France was more angered by being forced to sell out his people or by the slight to his pride. Germany winced at the pang of guilt he felt as soon as the thought had formed. It was cruel, even by the standards of the uncharitable mood he was in right then.

"Don't tell you don't relish the memory," France went on in the same dangerously calm and so very furious tone of voice. "How you had me sit there after the humans had left, had me serve you wine and chat about the weather!"

He ducked his head in a feeble attempt to hide his flush. Many excuses ran through his head, from citing his awkwardness in social situations to Feliciano's advice and to how he wouldn't have been there at all if his boss hadn't insisted. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"That's not what I asked for."

It took him a moment to recall what France had been asking for. When he did, his indignant bellow of, "I don't!" made France flinch so violently he spilled coffee over his hands. He suffered France's withering glare and quiet cursing without complaint; he had every right to be irritated. Once he had calmed down, however, Germany couldn't keep quiet any longer. "I…" He cleared his throat awkwardly and clung to the cup in his hands like it was his lifeline. "I don't relish the memory." He swallowed audibly. "I don't relish many memories of that boss' rule."

France made a small noise in the back of his throat; he twirled the cup around in his hands. Germany couldn't have said for the life of him whether it had been a derisive or sympathetic noise or something else altogether.

Germany looked down at his own cup. "I would rather not discuss the past anymore, France."

"You're right," France sighed explosively and rubbed his face with the hand not holding his cup of coffee. "I didn't bring you here to talk about the past." He sipped on his coffee and struggled not to spit it out again, going by the grimace he made. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, I did, but… not."

Germany remained silent, sensing that he finally had a chance of learning why France had invited him to Compiègne.

"After all, we're here to talk about our future, my dear Allemagne!" he said with a masklike copy of his usual charming smile.

What a funny place to discuss their shared future, Germany thought with irritation.

It must have shown on his face despite his best efforts, for France laughed mockingly. "Why so surprised? Did you think I brought you here to gloat?"

He hastily opened his mouth to reply that no, of course he hadn't, but before a word could leave his mouth, the triumphant gleam in France's eyes made him snap his mouth shut again.

France had asked his question in a light and teasing tone, yet now he looked so pleased with himself as if he had been playing him all along. "Of course you did," he murmured patronizingly, "you would. You have an appallingly low opinion of me. You're just like rosbif!" He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose your eyebrows don't resemble caterpillars."

"Thank you," Germany said doubtfully. That happened to be the nicest thing France had ever said about him.

Awkward silence settled over the museum as they both busied themselves with pretending they weren't watching one another.

"I visit the war memorials whenever it becomes too much," France said quietly. "They remind me of the price of war."

"I… see…," Germany replied tentatively. He peered at France, but he was still pretending to be enthralled by the wall.

To his surprise, he realized that he did see. It had been a thoughtful choice of venue, far more thoughtful than he would have ever credited France with. He smiled slightly as he continued to watch the Frenchman, his gaze softening ever so slightly.

"Thank you." Germany was surprised by himself, but no less so France, who finally looked at him. That startled expression he wore made him appear surprisingly vulnerable. It made him look younger. Germany's stomach clenched painfully. "Thank you for bringing me here. It is good to recall the price our people will have to pay if we fail."

A smile, somber, but real, tugged at France's lips. He nodded. "Yes, that is what I had intended." Germany watched with some wariness as he sauntered closer, the empty cup dangling from his fingers. "It won't be easy. Politics aside, we have never got along." The smile became too bright and dazzling. "You are disgusted by me and I loathe you!"

Germany's jaw clenched.

His fake smile wilted. "But personal feelings are of no consequence. We are nations." France was close now, very close. He could have counted every perfect golden eyelash if he had been inclined to do so.

Germany nestled at his tie. It suddenly felt too tight. "I will strive to be an advantageous partner," he said stiffly.

France chuckled. "You're so formal! Starting tomorrow, we will be closer than brothers. We will let bygones be bygones to herald the start of a new era of peace and prosperity." There was a sardonic undertone to his voice.

Even as his hackles rose, Germany had to agree. Put like that, it sounded awfully like the plans made after the Great War. "You act as if you can't wait for us to fail!" he snapped.

"Forgive me if I find it hard to trust your promises of peace anymore," France replied blithely.

Just like that, the awkwardness was back.

Germany fiddled some more with his tie.

France ran a hand through his hair and smiled. He was probably aiming for charming, but just ended up looking pained. "Ah, we did it again, didn't we?"

"It will take some practice," Germany admitted.

France smiled again, a long-suffering, crooked smile with just a hint of self-depreciating humor, and Germany returned it. "How fortunate that we have no lack of time!"

Germany didn't laugh, but his lips twitched with amusement. He remained silent for another too long moment before he realized it was probably his turn to speak. "Yes," he said awkwardly.

Their eyes met then and there was a strange softness in France's that made Germany feel queasy. His stomach hadn't even finished twisting in discomfort before France's face shifted back to that meaningless charming façade. "We should get you back to the hotel. I wouldn't want our bosses to think we murdered another!" His voice wasn't necessarily too loud and cheerful, but in the hushed atmosphere that had settled over them, it struck Germany as downright garish.

"Yes," he said again and clung to his cup. "Yes, we should."

France put out the hand that didn't hold the cup; he waited one beat, then two, then three. His brows furrowed. "Your cup."

"Oh. Oh!" Blood rushed into Germany's face as he fumbled with the cup in his haste to hand it over. "Sorry." He received no reply but a hum in the back of France's throat, but no reply was better than a snappish one, he had learnt that from dealing with Romano. With some relief, he finally managed to pass the cup safely to France.

He left without another word. Moments later, Germany heard the sound of running water.

Funny, he would have never taken France for the kind of nation to clean up after himself.

They left the museum in silence.

It had started to rain. The rain was just a light drizzle now, but a look at the sky sufficed to convince Germany that they wouldn't make it to the cars before the drizzle turned into a downpour.

He felt oddly relieved that the weather finally matched the occasion.

France took the time to lock the door properly and then they walked down the path, still silent. They didn't rush to escape the rain and France appeared unbothered by it. However, by the time they reached the centre of the monument, Germany caught him shivering ever so slightly.

He bit back the instinctive urge to berate France for his inappropriate clothing and wondered instead whether "furthering good relations" demanded that he offer him his coat. He didn't. Although France might derive amusement from being coddled, he had no need for it. He was more formidable than he looked and this place was proof of it.

They didn't quite walk in step, but they both made an effort to match the other's pace.

After all the awkward silences before, the quiet felt oddly comfortable.

When the drizzle gave way to the inevitable deluge, France laughed.

For a moment, Germany expected the laughter to be followed by a heavily-accented Italian voice sharing his delight at the simple wonder, for a smaller body to slip under his coat seeking protection from the rain and cold. He shook his head and the phantom touches vanished, replaced by the nation walking at an arm's length distance.

France's hair, his pride and joy, was frizzing.

He must have noticed Germany's disbelieving stare, then the twitch of his lips, for he shot Germany a baleful glare. "Don't laugh. My gorgeous hair shouldn't have to deal with rain!"

Germany opened his mouth, but words failed him. Nothing in his life had prepared him for dealing with France. "Ah…"

France chuckled and fell silent again.

Without a word, they parted ways to walk to their respective cars.

Germany unlocked his Mercedes Ponton and opened the door, then faltered.

After the emotional rollercoaster this meeting had been, their parting seemed oddly anticlimactic, unsatisfactory even.

Germany cleared his throat with an awkward little cough and looked to France, who already sat in his car. "I… I expect I will see you tomorrow, France."

France nodded. There was another moment of awkward silence, which only ended when France closed his car door.

As he followed France's car to Paris, he still couldn't shake off the feeling that something had been missing when they parted. It wriggled in the back of his mind, the itchy feeling of something remaining undone, of possibilities not realized.

Or maybe, Germany wondered, that was how new beginnings felt?

The end


End file.
